


Leather Hips

by Lanna Michaels (lannamichaels)



Series: Cross-fandom Franz Ferdinand-inspired series [2]
Category: Swimming RPF
Genre: April Showers Challenge 2011, Song Lyric Title
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-09-23
Updated: 2004-09-23
Packaged: 2017-10-18 18:58:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/192164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lannamichaels/pseuds/Lanna%20Michaels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael, you're the boy with all the leather hips, sticky hands, sticky hips, stubble on my sticky lips. The typical party fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leather Hips

Ian watched from across the room as Michael danced in the middle of the crowd. His long arms were clasped over his head as he swayed with the beat. The crowd had seemed to part when their golden boy had entered into their midst and then had closed in around him, eager to dance with the hero of the hour. And Michael did not disappoint. Ian could see Michael's famous hips peaking up from above his signature low waist band and if he could, all the way by the bar, then so could every eager autograph seeker, every photographer with too much empty film in the camera, so could every horny man in the room. So much of Michael was the world's now. There were still so many people who wouldn't recognize him clothed, but none of those people were at this party.

It had been thrown by one of the sponsors - Ian couldn't remember which - and he had followed Michael here with all the aborted grace of a fall into the pool. His gold medal was a ticket inside and no one blinked that he was still wearing his warm up gear. Apparently some allowances were made. None of those lining up outside to get a glimpse into the exclusive party were wearing anything that cost less than two hundred dollars. At least.

Maybe it was all the logos on his jacket. Maybe they thought he worked for the company. Right. And Everest was just a hill. Buckingham Palace was just a house. Michael was just a teenager.

The Thorpedo was just an underwear model and occasional world-record holder.

Ian laughed and finished off his drink. He couldn't remember what he had ordered, but he couldn't taste it anyway over the roar of the room. The slam of the glass on the table was just a ding and then Ian was pushing his way through the crowd. Michael was always easy. To find. To find. Not easy in any other way, of course. Not at all.

 _I need to be drunker._

"G'day, mate!" Michael screamed over the song. He was grinning like an idiot on speed and he threw out his arm in a parody of the freestyle stroke and grabbed Ian by the sweater. "Hey everyone! Thorpie's here!"

The crowd around seemed to laugh as one and Ian couldn't help grinning. This was perfectly stupid. But there Michael was and there he was and, bloody hell, somehow or another Michael had lost his shirt. Glitter or something it was, Ian remembered, mesh maybe. See through. Perhaps some fan grabbed and tugged and Michael was too high on adrenaline to notice.

But there Michael was, hot and sweaty, his hair matted to his scalp and forehead. Jeans so low on his hips that Ian could see the Olympic rings peaking out. He was mesmerized by the colours. Green, red, yellow.

"Hey, Ian, you staring at my cock?"

Michael laughed. Ian blushed. And then he grabbed Michael around his hip and groped him. In public. In front of what seemed to be a thousand dancing fans.

"Blowjob," Michael yelled into Ian's ear. "You, me, bathroom, now. Sound good?"

Ian nodded. "Brilliant. Meet you there." After all, that was all that he had wanted.

  



End file.
